Stranger in a Strange Land
by Red Nightfall
Summary: This is a completely gratuitous story, born out of misery at losing the best NPC in Tamriel. I have no excuse. A certain somebody cheats destiny and ends up lost in a strange new land.
1. Missing Presumed ?

This is my first Oblivion fic, so be gentle! I took the title of this chapter from the second Discworld game. The title of the story is from the novel/bible.

I don't own Oblivion, or anything like that.

This first chapter is a shortie, but the rest should be longer.

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**Chapter 1 - Missing Presumed ?**

Dark grey clouds formed a skin across the sky, heavy with the threat of thunder and lightning, yet the sun still shone across the length of Cyrodiil. Golden light illuminated the underneath of the storm clouds, giving the impression that the world was one great wall-less hall. The electricity in the atmosphere leant an extra air of anticipation and excitement.

_As if I need any more,_ thought a solitary robed figure, making its way up a pathway to a small house, nestled in the hills.

When the figure reached the doorway, it turned to regard the way it had come. The city of Bruma could be seen clearly to the southeast, and from it snaked the silver road, meandering away until it disappeared into the wooded heartlands. The figure cast its gaze beyond, where it could just glimpse the pinnacle of White Gold Tower, glimmering like a spear of burning silver in the defiant sun.

Disgusted, the figure turned its black clad back to the majestic view, and vanished into gloom of the house.

xox

At the same time, a dark rider was flying through the imperial reserve, her black steed passing like a shadow and a whisper on the wind. From her saddle there swung a head, shrivelled and shrunken with age, fastened by the hair to the pommel. She rode like someone about to lose everything.

xox

The shadow on the wall told him the sun was going down. The last beam of the day's light falling over the word 'Applewatch', carved into the stone mantelpiece, the letters eerily stretched and elongated by the late sun. The robed figure stood motionless on the cold flagstone floor, the only sounds to be heard were the singing birds and the beat of his own heart. And something else… Lucien stiffened, straining to make out the third sound, willing his own heart to be still.

_Crunch._

That was the sound of a footstep in the snow, so faint that few people but he would have heard it.

_Crunch crunch._

Was that one person, or more? His silencer, or someone… else?

xox

As the sun sunk behind the western hills, and the land was cast into shadow, four black-robed figures approached the farmhouse. The evening star shone bright in the sky before the rise of Masser and Secunda. The figures paused, forming an ominous semicircle around the door to the house. The tallest figure stretched out its hand towards the door, and in a flash the door was thrown open; the four figures were in the farmhouse, weapons drawn.

The _empty_ farmhouse.

Cursing, the tallest figure threw back her hood in frustration, revealing an altmer countenance, with a snub nose and little piggy eyes, narrowed in anger.

"Damn him!" spat Arquen.

xox

From the shadow of the door, the dark rider smiled a dark smile.


	2. Awakenings

**Chapter 2 - Awakenings**

Lucien looked about himself. It was pitch black, and the air smelled stale and stuffy.

Casting his custom nighteye/detect life spell, he took another look around. He seemed to be in some kind of storeroom, about the size of the training room, back at the Cheydinhal sanctuary, but there was no life within one hundred feet of him. There were chairs, statues and urns. Ancient looking books with heavy covers that looked to be made of metal. Weapons lined one wall, some of them exquisitely made, others obviously only ceremonial. A magnificent set of armour displayed on a statue stood in one corner. Nothing radiated magicka.

_A museum, perhaps?_Lucien pondered. His gaze fell upon what seemed to be an enormous box, the size of a small hut placed on a dais at one end of the room. Moving beside it, he found a door. With various sayings about curiosity running through his mind, he reached out and pulled on the door handle. The door was stiff, like it hadn't been used in years, and as it opened it gave off a faint rotting smell. Lucien looked behind the door.

At another door. Becoming slightly irritated, he jerked the next door open, to be met by yet another door. This door was just about at head height. With a sigh, his hand paused on the third handle, considering. His silencer seemed to hold him in too high a regard to play this kind of trick on him, so he believed her when she said she didn't know where the scroll would take him. It had been a last resort, really. But he knew the Black Hand would not have given him a chance to explain.

xox

'_Speaker, wait!' his silencer called to him as he turned his back upon the body on Ungolim, and the statue of his unholy matron. Slowly he turned._

'_Take this,' she said, holding out a roll of parchment. 'I found it in the Imperial Palace basement when I stole the Elder Scroll.'_

_Lucien took the scroll; the stiff, yellowed parchment looked a hundred years old or more._

'_It's a teleportation scroll,' she explained. 'I'm not sure where it goes, but it's to somewhere far away.' Teleportation magick had been next to impossible to obtain after Hannibal Traven had severely restricted it's use, but whatever this was, it was clear that it hadn't been written by anyone from the mages guild._

_The words of power were written in the Aylied language, but it was an archaic Dunmer script. He skimmed through the length of it – an unusually long incantation, but he could read it all._

'_As a last resort,' she said. He nodded, placing a gloved hand behind her head, drawing her closer. He kissed her brow, then turned without a whisper and disappeared from her life forever._

xox

Lucien turned the handle. The stench of death hit him like a wall, so strong it took all his self control not to gag. Placing a fine black sleeve over his nose and mouth, he took a look in the box with ever-so-slightly watering eyes.

A beautiful granite sarcophagus occupied the space inside the box. Inside was a corpse adorned in a magnificent set of armour, magicka rolling off it in waves like heat off the gold road in Sun's Height. It seemed to be made of mithril or silver, yet Lucien knew this was a metal he had never seen before. Inscriptions ran over it like veins in a leaf, curling and intertwining, carved so fine and intricately that it baffled the eye. The corpse's head wore a mask of the same substance, the features serene yet strong.

Looking over the figure in the sarcophagus, Lucien caught sight of a chain attached to something black clasped tight in a gauntleted fist. Prying open the fingers of the corpse, Lucien tugged on the object, ripping it from its previous owner's grasp.

Lucien dangled the object from its chain between two fingers. It was a little flat figurine, an amulet, made out of some ebony-like substance, depicting a woman wielding two blades; one above her head and one behind her. Along one of the blades was written a word in a script he didn't recognise.

Pocketing the amulet, he continued his inspection of what he had come to realise was a tomb. The walls, the ceilings, even the floors were covered in paintings and engravings, all of which seemed to depict people in various states of undress performing numerous tasks. He recognised a figure dressed in resplendent armour – the occupant of this tomb. He seemed to be ruling over most of the others; a king, perhaps?

Moving on, he headed towards an open doorway. It lead into a hallway, walls adorned with rotting tapestries. Through this he went into another chamber, slightly smaller than the first, but completely filled with stone statues. Each one human height, though slightly shorter than Lucien, standing shoulder to shoulder. Each one different, and each carved to be astonishingly life like.

If Lucien had been the sort to feel uneasy, he would have done now, with a small army of carven sentinels guarding their king's final resting place. As it was, he didn't break his smooth gate, and kept walking into the adjoining antechamber.

This was clearly a library, or had once been. There were shelves stacked with books from floor to ceiling, and the musty smell of old parchment was overwhelming, such that Lucien was tempted to carry on walking. One particular book caught his eye, however. It had the same cryptic script on the cover that he had seen everywhere else in the tomb, but it had daedric runes depicted above it.

Pulling the tome off the shelf, he carefully dusted it off. 'Daedric Translation Manual'. Smiling a little to himself, as daedric was a language with which even elementary practitioners of the arcane must master, and in which Lucien himself was fluent.

Lucien shifted one of the finely carved wooden chairs out of the library into the hall, to escape the mustiness. Settling down, he started to flick through the manual.

After about an hour, cross referencing with other tomes and the inscriptions on the wall when necessary, he had determined that this tomb had belonged to someone called Nefernis, who had been a great warrior king at some point in this country's history. What country that was, Lucien was unsure, and Nefernis was not a name he was familiar with. What he did find curious was that Nefernis was always referred to along with 'his shadow', and always behind the figure in the resplendent armour was an identical copy, only coloured all in black.

One final thing he had the patience to glean from the text was the word inscribed on the amulet. Holding it in his palm, he read the writing: _Kushiel._

'Kushiel,' he murmured. Everything went black. It took an alarmed moment to realise that his nighteye spell had worn off. He was about to renew it, when he glanced up, and saw two luminous green eyes staring back at him. Quickly casting the spell, he saw a life sized version of the amulet he held, and she was swinging one of those blades at his head.

Swiftly ducking under the blow, he swept to his feet, drawing his blades. Mehrunes Razor in his left hand; a delightful little surprise at the end of one of his last contracts, The Ebony Blade in his right; that was a gift from his dear silencer, a memento from the murders that he had recruited her for. Lucien smiled a little as he held his beloved weapons; he had revelled in his duties for the Black Hand, but he sorely missed the thrill of combat, as combat was so rare for a speaker.

The woman he faced recovered from her miss as though she had planned it, with a practiced grace Lucien had only seen in Dunmer who had trained for centuries. And himself, of course. But he realised this would be no easy fight.


	3. Whispers in the Dark

The diamond arrow(bullet) in this chapter was borrowed from Apocalypse Now; it was just too perfect to ingnore!

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**Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Dark**

Lucien blinked. He had refreshed his nighteye/detect life spell, and, as he'd expected, a purplish glow had gradually suffused the area his mysterious attacker was occupying, signifying that she was indeed alive. But now, as they circled, he began to realise that the glow hadn't stopped spreading, that it was bleeding into the air around her, masking her movements. This was new.

A soft whoosh and a blur indicated she had gone on the offensive, so Lucien slipped to the side. The glow was occupying most of his view now, blinding him; only his peripheral vision remained clear, though that too was fading fast. Cursing silently, he dispelled the magicka maintaining the spell, focusing hard on his other senses whilst preparing to cast a standard nighteye spell.

A pit-pat to his right told him to back off quickly, but disorientated, he backed into his chair, stumbling and losing his spell. Obviously this creature could see perfectly in the pitch black, because she pressed forward quickly. Intuition borne of a thousand battles made him block a head shot, but in his blindness he overreached, and he felt her blade slice through his glove and nick his hand.

He withdrew like lightning and rolled backwards with the blow, but in that instant he had _glimpsed _something_._ It was over in an instant, but it was like he had been shot with a diamond arrow, right through his forehead. It was perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure. Clear. Clear as a _perfect cloudless midnight._

But the harder Lucien strained to focus on this _vision_ the more it slipped away; like sand through dry fingers. Like trying to catch smoke.

Suddenly frantic, he realised he should be dead by now. He'd been messing around on the floor for several seconds, too long. Now standing stock still, he strained to hear any sound of his attacker. Nothing. Tensing every muscle in his body in preparation for the coming attack, he cast nighteye. Nothing.

The hallway was empty. His ire rising, he strode swiftly back into the library. Empty. Frustration building, he aimed a kick at the chair that had so impeded him. He had been so close! But to what? He wasn't sure. Something powerful, something True.

As the anger at his defeat began to ebb, the realisation crept in that he was in a very uncomfortable position. Literal darkness, the absence of light; that was his medium, his delight, but he absolutely loathed being in the dark. He despised being ignorant, detested asking questions he didn't already know the answer to, and he abhorred being dependent upon other people for the answers.

He knew nothing of his current situation; where he was, anything about this place's civilisations, if there were any, even. And if there was, he was fairly certain they wouldn't speak Cyrodiilic. He knew nothing of the power balance in this new place, what the people valued, what they feared. He was vulnerable, more vulnerable than he had ever been, and he had just lost his first fight in about twenty years. He almost wished he had just taken his chances with the Black Hand. _Almost._

But Lucien Lachance was no quitter. He was not afraid, and anger at his predicament hardened into resolve. Whatever kind of place he was in, as long as there was sentience, there would be a demand for his exquisite deathcraft, and he would be only to happy to provide, spreading the icy fist of fear among a new populace, bringing the will of Sithis to bear against new foes. Like the Death Viper from the deserts of Elsweyr, Lucien would survive even in the harshest of conditions.

Fastening the amulet around his neck, he prepared himself for another fight, and touching the black figurine, he whispered "Kushiel."

He thought he felt a slight breeze stir the stale air, but aside from that nothing happened. Fighting against the anger that came bubbling to the surface once more, he growled somewhat louder than before, "Kushiel!"

This time something definitely happened. The breeze became a gust, rippling Lucien's soft black robes, and he thought he heard a whisper on the wind. It echoed softly around the hall, or was it more than one voice? It spoke in words he couldn't understand, but from the unsettling feeling in the pit of Lucien's stomach, message was clear: _desist._

Lucien fought the temptation to be petulant, and call the word again. It was foolish to meddle with unknown powers when in such a vulnerable position. Sheathing his weapons, he resolved to find an exit, and discover what kind of place he was in.

xox

After wandering around twisting tunnels and ancient hallways for over an hour, Lucien began to wish he had thought to bring some better provisions. The fruit and small flask of water seemed now to be woefully inadequate. He had explored through rooms filled with musical instruments, few of which Lucien had seen the like of, he had climbed up flights of stairs with ceilings higher than the ones in the Imperial Palace itself. The higher he climbed, the hotter it became, until the heat was so oppresive it was like an invisible barrier, trying to force him downwards, back to the cool.

Lucien pressed on, climbing higher and higher until finally, he reached the top chamber; a strangely empty triangular room. The top of the ceiling was so high up it was lost in the darkness, and the slabs of stone that made up the walls were so large it must have taken a whole regiment of mystics to levitate them into place.

On the far side of the room seemed to be the exit; a large stone door behind which Lucien discovered another wall. The exit was bricked up, not with the gargantuan slabs, but with small head-sized bricks.

Short on patience after the exhausting climb, Lucien began to blast the bricks away with fireballs and shock spells. By the time his magicka had run dry there was a gap big enough to climb through. Nighteye worn off once more, he stepped out into this new world, and even the great Lucien Lachance was staggered by what he saw.

The first thing that hit him was the sunlight. He had left Applewatch at dusk, around eight in the evening, and he had been here less than four hours, yet it was mid to late morning, the sun already high in the sky. Looking around, Lucien couldn't help but be slightly awed at the sight that greeted him.

He seemed to be on the peak of a great pyramidical structure, and just a couple of metres below his feet was a great canopy. Tree tops stretched for as far as the eye could see, undulating, rolling and diving like the waves on a great ocean, mist rising from it in parts. But he had been climbing for more than an hour, which meant that these trees must be taller than even the towering elms of Valenwood. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he gazed around; to the right on the horizon rose some great snowy peaks, their tops lost in clouds; to the left the ground fell away, offering an astounding view of an expansive rainforest, a line of steam in the distance, signifying a great river.

Exhaustion creeping in, Lucien was about to sit down to finish his provisions, the thin air leaving him somewhat breathless, when a shout echoed up out of the tree tops. An angry shout.


	4. When Good Plans Go Bad: 2

I was seriously tempted to have the natives fall to their knees and worship Lucien as a God, like all us fangirls do... but somehow I resisted.

Oh, and if you care whether or not Lucien remains a baddy, head over to my profile page and make your vote count ;)

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**Chapter 4 - When Good Plans Go Bad: 2**

Lucien tensed, bringing himself up to his full height, at which he towered over the diminutive form now eyeing him suspiciously from a few steps below. The newcomer was very dark skinned; the colour of a rich dark chocolate, his dreaded hair adorned with colourful threads and beads. His clothes were a bright yellow, contrasting magnificently with his dusky skin, though they seemed well made, and of a style which belied his generally tribal appearance.

The man gesticulated wildly, and yelled something that sounded like 'why-sea-choo'. He seemed to be waiting for Lucien to reply, so the assassin took out the daedric translation manual, and read a passage which translated roughly to:

"I seek an audience with your Dread Lord."

The figure gawped at him. Fighting off the urge to roll his eyes, Lucien tried again:

"I wish to trade,"

The figure let out a high pitched whine, which may or may not have passed for speech, and pointed a shaking finger at the entrance to the pyramid. With a shrug, Lucien reached in and closed the door with a subtle locking spell. An enraged bellow caused him to look about; the figure had ascended a step, looking torn between fight and flight. Fixing him with his most impressive glare, Lucien decided that his first meeting was off to a rather bad start, and that it might be better to kill this one and start again. His hand was halfway towards the hilt of Mehrunes Razor when a second figure joined the first. This figure was rather more impressive in stature, and she was wearing a wicked looking blade to match a wicked expression.

Cursing the rotten luck that had brought him to this accursed country, Lucien raised his eyebrows, and fixed a surprised and inquiring look on his face, focusing on an object a few feet behind his companions. As they turned to see what he was looking at, he quickly summoned a dremora to occupy the empty space.

The two figures gave an alarmed cry and fell back a few steps. The smaller figure glanced wildly at Lucien, but Lucien was gone. Double taking, he gibbered inanely at his companion, who seemed reluctant to take her eye off the dremora. Finally looking around, she snarled in annoyance at finding the interloper gone, and, turning back to face the bizarre creature, drew her sword. But the creature was gone, too.

Lucien watched from the cover of his invisibility spell as the warrior woman yelled in frustration, kicking a loose pebble down into the tree tops. Frantically, they began to look around, trying to spot some sign of their elusive quarry, whispering together in hushed tones. After spending what seemed like an eternity searching the area for the assassin, and numerous doomed attempts to open the locked door of the pyramid, they seemed to accept the inevitable, and turned and descended beneath the canopy, making their way home to report their findings.

From the shadows, Lucien watched, and followed.

xox

The world beneath the trees was dark. Very little light could make it through the thick canopy, creating an environment very different from any that Lucien had seen before. He found he rather liked it; a world that never saw the harsh revealing light of day. And as he somehow knew it would, life thrived in this place. Casting a minor detect life spell, he saw that there was barely a square inch free of the twinkling glow that signified a life form.

As he followed his unwitting guides, he caught glimpses of flashing eyes, regarding them from the shadows. The jabbering shrieks of strange creatures Lucien knew no name for sounded constantly from all sides and above. The smell of rotting plants mixed with the scent of the giant trees and strange night flowers was strangely heady and intoxicating.

Lucien found himself being impressed by the speed and silence with which his guides travelled through the forest, leaving hardly a trail; not that he needed a trail to follow them.

xox

It was a long walk to the settlement, the heat was oppressive, the humidity so intense it seemed to make the air thick; like a soup that you swam through rather than walking. Lucien's robes were sodden, and not just with sweat. By the time his new friends showed signs of slowing, Lucien was in a foul mood. The ground began to grow sandy, and the trees were shrinking, letting in more light, and scorching anyone foolish enough to be clad in black. The wind carried the scent of saltwater and dead fish, sure signs that they were approaching the sea.

If Lucien had been anyone else, he might have been awed at the sight that met him when he finally emerged from beneath the branches, he might have felt his spirit lift and soar above the trees. As it was, he felt his black heart sink with the realisation that this was just not his day. A long curved beach of the whitest sand descended into the crystal waters of a lagoon so sparklingly azure it made his eyes water. Bright fish swam in the shallow waters, and a dolphin leapt in the distance.

_How sickeningly perfect,_ he thought with an invisible scowl. Looking around the beach he caught sight of their destination, and ground his teeth. A collection of rustic fishing shacks, all centred around a pathetic little campfire. Who in oblivion would require an assassin in this nauseating paradise? Where could he find someone with the magicka to get him out of this cess pool of light and perfection?

So intent was he on cursing each and every god and daedra that he failed to notice a strange rippling in the sand, or his two guides looking in anticipation at the spot where an unseen entity had made footprints in the sand. So when the ground shot away from him, and he found himself dangling in a net from a contraption cleverly disguised as a tree, Lucien was… surprised.

His captors wasted no time, using the moment of shock to batter their prey with large sticks, preventing him both from drawing a weapon to cut himself free, and from maintaining consciousness. The last thing Lucien saw before the darkness was a row of strangely white teeth forming a smug grin on his diminutive guide's face.

_Sneaky bastard,_ he thought.


	5. The Dark Land

**Chapter 5 - The Dark Land**

Lucien was bobbing. It was strangely relaxing, like the gentle rock of a boat on the ocean. The ocean… _Damn!_ His eyes flew wide, sure he would find himself far out to sea in some godsforsaken little canoe. But no… there were the tall exotic trees, the welcome darkness provided by the canopy, and the less welcome net that had ensnared him. But gone was the reassuring weight of his weapons on his belt, and his hands had been bound behind his back, preventing any spellcasting.

So Lucien really had no option but to wait patiently in his net, bobbing along while suspended from the pole his two new 'friends' were using to transport him to gods knew where. Fortunately, Lucien wasn't one to suffer from sea sickness.

As the sun began to descend in the sky, the world under the canopy grew darker still, the foreign noises Lucien had heard on his previous journey through the trees were growing steadily louder, and there was something… _else._ At first, Lucien believed himself to be imagining it, his overworked mind becoming stressed from what had to rank among the worst weeks of his life. But as the gloom increased, he noticed his hosts giving each other nervous glances, and he knew then that he wasn't imagining it. There was something he had never encountered in this jungle, something alive, with a seeing mind, watchful; judging. And the darker it got, the more intense the feeling – they were being observed.

When the sun descended into the earth, Lucien was plunged in to a darkness so complete, even he had never experienced the like of it. He could see nothing; not a thing, except the glowing of strange forest creatures. As his eyes grew more accustomed to the exotic night, he began to notice more and more of these animals – insects, lizards and snakes, even a nocturnal bird or two, and numerous pairs of eyes, observing the strange procession. They glowed white, yellow, blue and red; whirring about in constant movement. Even some of the lichens, fungi and vines were glowing subtly.

Lucien was just wondering how on earth the two natives could see where they were going, when they emerged from the trees onto the summit of a lone mountain piercing the canopy in the middle of the jungle. And at the top of the mountain could be seen their destination – a vast metropolis, illuminated with thousands of silver lamps in mimicry of the jungle it loomed over.

At this point the two natives dumped Lucien unceremoniously on the ground, and kindled a lamp, which emitted a silvery glow akin to those that could be seen in the great city above. They then settled down upon the slopes of the mountain and took a rest; eating and drinking their fill.

By now, Lucien was parched and famished, but he refused to allow himself to eye the natives' vittles jealously, and ignored their attempts to feed him.

xox

The trail up to the city wound about the mountain, long and steep; stepped in places, smooth and ramp-like in others. It was paved with a fine stone, the slabs joining perfectly with each other, never sticking out to trip the unsuspecting traveller. With several stops to recover from the exhausting climb, by the time the small party made it to the gates of the city the lamps were doused, and the sun was beginning to peak over the tops of the trees.

The gates of the city were wrought of a heavy reddish wood, finely carved and locked tight. Two soldiers in fine chainmail solemnly stood guard, the early morning sun glinting off their mail so that they resembled the silvery fish in the bay. Their armour bore an image of a strange cat-like creature Lucien had never seen before – it bore a resemblance to the mountain lions of Cyrodiil which Shadowmere used to enjoy racing.

Thinking of his old steed brought on an uncharacteristic bout of nostalgia, where was she now? Had his Silencer uncovered the traitor? Had the Black Hand survived? What of the Brotherhood to which he had dedicated most of his life? His ruminations were rudely interrupted by the clanking of the gate, as one of the guards went into the city, presumably to fetch someone with the authority to decide his fate.

It was only now, as he hung in the air, suspended between the two natives, fully exposed in the morning sun, that he realised exactly how undignified his current situation was. The anger that had been quelled by the gentle rocking of the journey and the fascinating night's light show suddenly resurfaced, though Lucien had the self discipline to prevent it from showing, especially now that he had a playground at least the equal of the Imperial City to work with…

xox

After an interminably long wait, the massive gates opened once more. Out of them came a small mounted delegation, consisting of two women who looked to be in their fifties, and a retinue of soldiers all in shining plate mail which seemed to be a pale imitation of the set he saw in Nefernis' tomb. The horses they rode upon were similar to those he was accustomed to, though their faces were dished, and their bones fine and delicate, as opposed to the more brutish looking beasts used in Tamriel.

The two women, as dark skinned as Lucien's escort, dismounted and approached the group. The two scouts then treated the women to a speech, presumably an account of what had happened at the pyramid. When they reached the end of their tale – which part that was, Lucien wasn't sure – their voices rose to a crescendo, before yelling something which made one of the women gasp in horror, and the other shout in rage.

The enraged woman snatched a spear from one of the soldiers, and strode purposefully towards Lucien as he dangled helplessly, obviously meaning to skewer him on the end of it.

Lucien's mind went into overdrive. He needed an escape, a distraction, _anything_. As he struggled inelegantly and ineffectually against his bindings, he noticed the weight of his new amulet, and a plan began to form itself in his mind.

"Kushiel!" he commanded.

A gasp and a whisper rippled through the assembled crowd – or was that the ripple of a sudden breeze?

In answer to Lucien's command, the long shadow that he cast in the early morning's sun seemed to grow, and take on a shape of its own; solidifying into the form of a woman, the shadow warrior with luminous green eyes.

At once, Lucien was dropped, and the assembled crowd backed away from the pair, lowering their eyes from the dark figure.

Kushiel drew a black blade, and turned to Lucien, who was beginning to question the wisdom of this plan. But he needn't have worried, for the figure simply crouched beside him, and cut through the net and his bonds. As one, they stood, locking gazes; and again Lucien was struck with the knowledge that he was close to something. Closer than before – he had commanded her, and she had obeyed. But she wasn't his, yet. Her gaze was judging, undecided.

As Kushiel dissipated back into the shadow from which she had come, the crowd began to murmur to each other. The woman who had gasped stepped tentatively towards Lucien. She made a sweeping gesture with her hands and said:

"Kushiel n'afar." Turning to address the crowd, she called out "Kushiel erriat, Kushiel uss dar'ith leshar!"

Turning to Lucien, she spoke again, but this time Lucien recognised the sounds she made. They were similar to those he saw in the daedric translation manual.

As he was ushered into the city, he became aware just how much of a stir he was making. Being led through the winding streets, he felt rather than heard the ripple of rumour travelling from mouth to mouth, like the waves of a stone hitting the water. Attention was not something he wanted, it made his business difficult.

He was led to what he assumed was the main governmental building, a great domed hall surrounded by exotic looking trees and shrubs. Intricate mosaics decorated the ground all around it, and a clear pond containing water flowers and rainbow coloured fish ran around the perimeter. Lucien was led through a pair of tall white pillars, into a great hallway, through a corridor and into a luxurious bed chamber.

For a moment he hesitated, sizing up the woman leading the way, but relaxed soon after, reasonably sure that she wasn't the type to invite strangers into her bed. She gestured to a richly embroidered divan, and Lucien took a seat. The woman sat in a chair opposite, and gestured to a servant, who scurried off; then she looked at Lucien expectantly.

Lucien took out his book, flipped through the pages, and arrived at a passage that would serve as a beginning.

"Where am I?" he asked, cringing inwardly at his open display of ignorance.

The woman seemed surprised, but answered slowly and clearly:

"Kush."

Lucien had never heard of it. It was no plane of Oblivion, which must mean that he was somewhere on the same plane as Tamriel.

"Kush?" he questioned. The woman seemed unsure how to answer, but she moved to sit next to Lucien, and began pointing out words in his book: 'The', 'Dark' and 'Land'.

_The Dark Land_, he thought, and an ironic smile crept onto his lips; _how fitting._

When the servant scurried back in, followed by a few others bearing platters of food and ewers of drink, the woman seemed to feel it was time to leave. She rose, nodded to Lucien, and left with the servants, closing the door. As he tucked into the meal, sniffing it carefully for poison, Lucien began to get the feeling that these were not the kind of people who regularly settled their disputes with bloodshed. But he wouldn't be discouraged, violence was human nature, all that was required was careful planning to bring out the worst in people. Lucien was a patient man.

* * *

Translation - "The spirit of our land is with you"... "Kushiel returns, Kushiel has followed the stranger!"


	6. Of Light and Darkness

This chapter has the first real fight scene, and I'm not really sure if it worked; I'd really appreciate any comments, good or bad ;)

Also, the tattoo is from Lost. Maybe I should have used an original one, but it was just perfect for her character.

* * *

**Chapter 6 – Of Light and Darkness**

The Listener of the Black Hand reclined upon a magnificently embroidered chaise longue. In her right hand was a sheet of thick parchment, rolled up and tied with a long silken ribbon. In her left hand was a large glass of deep purple wine, a fine vintage of Châteauhuit-du-duc from High Rock.

She twirled the glass with slender fingers, sloshing the heady liquid around in circles before inhaling the rich scent and taking a sip. Looking around the halls of Fort Farragut, she felt the familiar pang of regret. It looked so different now; after she had been appointed Listener she came back here – where else could she go? She had felt so angry and frustrated at losing Him, and so alone. She had destroyed the place; smashed furniture and alchemy equipment, ripped down banners, thrown destruction spells around until the place resembled Kvatch after the invasion. She still recalled in crystalline purity the night on which she had first entered this unholy place…

_There was not a cloud in the sky on the cold clear midnight in Evening Star when Loria first made her way up the winding path to the ruins of Fort Farragut. In her right hand she clutched the parchment containing her secret orders from Lucien Lachance. Her left hand rested on the hilt of her beloved Ebony Blade._

_She had slipped soundlessly through the corridors of the ruined fort, careful to leave each Dark Guardian intact. Then she had reached Him. He had smiled at her, welcomed her, and asked her to murder her family. No, not asked; he had told her that this is what she was about to do, and as always, he was dead right._

_Her dark lips curled in an ironic smile upon receiving the spell to summon Rufio's ghost. Then she had given Lucien her blade; she didn't want it's flawless edge stained with the dark blood of her kin._

_He had wished her luck as she dissappeared back into the night._

xox

Loria swirled her wine, and took another sip. She had been recruiting all last night; there were a surprising amount of murderers around Tamriel. Strangely, all her recruits had been dark haired Imperial men. Arquen had raised an eyebrow when Loria had come to impart the Night Mother's wisdom that morning, but Loria had volunteered no information, and the high elf had known better than to inquire.

She set down her wine and unrolled the parchment in her left hand. It bore the text of a long incantation, one Loria knew off by heart, but it was just a transcript. There was no magicka to it; they were just words. She had found the original in the Imperial Palace, and judging by the peculiar script, she felt sure that it had been pilfered from the great library of Sotha Sil, in the clockwork city. She had copied the text of the scroll, but she imagined there were precious few beings in Nirn who could recreate the mackica of the scroll. But she had contacts.

The Listener was awaiting the arrival of a particularly interesting recruit this morning. He had attacked and killed some Skingrad guard who had gotten a little over familiar with a serving maid. Loria had been surprised when he had accepted her offer; he had seemed rather chivalrous. But, she noticed with an ironic smirk, she seemed to have a similar effect on the male recruits as Lucien had had on her.

xox

Lucien twirled a glass of liquor between two fingers. Things had definitely improved; the amulet he had acquired seemed to provoke a certain amount of respect from the locals – or at least, what the amulet summoned did. He had spent the remainder of the morning relaxing in his newly appointed quarters, sating his thirst and hunger. He had even had his weapons returned to him. He whirled Mehrunes Razor idly in his fingers. The Razor was undoubtedly his most powerful possession – _at least it was,_ he mused, unsure of his new amulet's true power. But the Ebony Blade was his favourite; it was a beautiful weapon, flawless, perfectly balanced, and deadly. Its bite drained the life from his victims, healing its wielder. And though Lucien was not given to sentimentality, he had to admit that he felt attached to the weapon, and its former owner.

When he had first met her, in the early hours of a freezing Morning Star dawn, he had foregone the traditional ritual of waiting until she slept. She had been gazing at the stars, standing on the turret of an abandoned church near the Silverfish River. Her raven hair shone bluish in the dark. Her armour opened at the back to show a tattoo in daedric writing, running the length of her spine. He had read it aloud;

"She walks amongst us, but she is not one of us."

She turned to him, her skin so pale, with that bluish tint. In time he came to realise that this was no trick of the night, rather a result of her one dunmer parent. Her eyes had seemed black at the time, but now he knew that as they caught the light they shone deep blue, like the depths of the ocean.

He had spoken to her of the Night Mother, of the Dread Father, and she had listened. She spoke not a word to him, but when he left he felt he knew her. They were born to kill.

xox

Raith Revan slipped through the corridors of Fort Farragut in a dark dream. He had slain the guard for noble reasons, he was sure. The guard had tried to rape that woman; Raith had been justified in his actions. So why was he here? Why had he killed that dunmer, Myvryna Arano, just because that mysterious woman had asked him to? Why didn't the answers to these questions seem important? He had been the Grand Champion of the Arena after beating the Gray Prince, shortly before the Oblivion crisis. There had been many challenges to his title, but none could defeat him; wasn't this enough? Why did She make him feel like his life was empty without Her around? Was there anything he wouldn't do if She asked?

He approached the solid ebony gate which sealed her private chamber, and placed a hand on it, as instructed. At once, the gate began to rise, allowing him entrance into Her lavishly furnished room. There were rich tapestries on the walls; all of them depicting a giant hand. A four poster bed was at one end, surrounded in velvet drapes. Sofas and settees were variously arranged for maximum comfort; littered with cushions and poufs. A drinks cabinet housed an extensive collection of wines and liquors from all over Tamriel.

Raith's eyes alighted on Her; stretched dispassionately on a chaise longue, he made a beeline.

xox

Loria knew that inviting new Murderers to the Listener's private abode was highly unconventional. That made it all the more pleasant. She gestured to the Imperial approaching to take a seat. He was surely an Imperial, though with a name like that he must have had a dunmer ancestor on his father's side.

_How lovely to have something in common,_ she thought.

"Welcome, Murderer," she smiled. He did not flinch at her use of his rank; this was a good start. "I understand you're acquainted with the new Mage's Guild Archmage, Anton Filius?"

xox

As night descended upon the great Kushite metropolis, a shadow slipped out of the government building, made its way through the twisting, turning alleyways, and slipped over the city gate.

Once out of the city, Lucien headed off towards a bare mountain rising in tandem with the one upon which the city stood. By the time he reached the summit, the middle of the night had passed, and Masser and Secunda hung huge in the sky, hiding all but the brightest stars from view. Wisps of navy clouds stood out strikingly against the velvety blackness of the night.

Lucien took the black figurine in his hand, measuring its weight and temperature, preparing himself for the struggle ahead. He knew somehow that this amulet was the key to his success here – to master it is to master the land, he would not need the Night Mother if he commanded this creature. Whatever she was, she was inextricably linked to the land itself; but he would find out more about her shortly. Steeling himself, he called "Kushiel".

The familiar breeze answered his summons, like the soft caress of fine silk against his skin. And out of the shadows stepped Kushiel – always unchanging, yet never quite the same. She bent her knees; fingers brushing the floor, a low bow; but not one of subservience, not yet.

Lucien drew his weapons, and standing, Kushiel followed suit. As their deadly dance began, they started to circle, each trying a chop to the head, or a slice to the arm, testing the other out. Kushiel suddenly went on the offensive; an overhead arc followed by a thrust to the abdomen; Lucien blocked them easily, adding a riposte. Speeding up her attack, Kushiel's weapons began to blur; head, leg, arm, leg, head, arm, arm. Lucien matched her attacks flawlessly, turning, dodging, spinning, blocking.

Kushiel's speed increased yet again; so fast Lucien was unable to discern by eye where her next attack would come from, so he slipped naturally into his warrior's state, letting instinct take over; parrying each blow like lightning, he allowed Kushiel to carry on her offensive. She was gradually working his defence higher and higher, and he thought he knew what was coming next. When his blocks came around head height, Kushiel suddenly prepared to bring her attack in low with both weapons – but Lucien was ready for her. Faster than the eye could see, he blocked low, and felt a sharp pain slash across his lower back.

Startled, he fell forward into the empty space Kushiel had so quickly vacated, flipping over and wincing as pain shot through him. He saw Kushiel approaching to finish him off, with something like regret on her midnight face. Thinking quickly through the pain, he summoned a storm atronach, and prayed to Sithis it would keep her busy long enough for his magicka to regenerate sufficiently to heal himself.

He felt the warm, wet spread of his blood as it soaked through his robes, but he gritted his teeth and hauled himself to his feet. Light-headedness assaulted him, threatening to overwhelm and drag him down. He could hear Kushiel battling the daedra – he had taken a gamble, hoping that daedra summons were unfamiliar to her, and she wouldn't know to attack the caster instead of the creature; it had paid off. He cast his most powerful healing spell, feeling the fuzziness in his head diminish as the wound knitted together.

Picking up his weapons as Kushiel dealt death to the atronach, he formed a plan.

She assaulted him mercilessly with a flurry of exquisitely placed attacks, and Lucien was forced give ground, falling back to where the ground gave away at the side of the mountain; a sharp precipice above a yawning chasm, and a long drop to the jagged rocks below. When his heels no longer touched solid ground, and Kushiel could smell victory, he suddenly changed pace. On the offensive now, he began to work her defence higher and higher, his attacks coming so swiftly she couldn't reverse the flow; besides, she knew where this was going.

Higher and higher still came the attacks, and when Kushiel's blocks came at head height, Lucien prepared to bring his attack in low. Smirking slightly, Kushiel spun around to block the attack from behind, and gasped as she felt the Ebony Blade pierce her lower back. The black blade seemed one with the shadow as Lucien drove the length of it through his opponent. He brought his lips to her ear and whispered "I learn quickly." Twisting the blade viciously, he withdrew and sheathed it, still spotless, in one fluid motion.

Kushiel stood paralyzed for a moment, then began to lose cohesion. Melting away, she seemed to turn to black smoke, like shadow made physical, before being sucked into Lucien's amulet.

The assassin gasped, doubling up like he'd been punched in the stomach as he realised: he'd won. The understanding rushed up on him like a river bursting through a dam, she was the spirit of this land, and she was his to command. The land's knowledge, wisdom, power – she embodied all these things; what she knew, he knew.

Things had definitely improved.


	7. Corruption

Wheee! The smelly people at work finally turned the radio off, so now I can think again!

* * *

**Chapter 7 - Corruption**

Lucien fell to his knees, gasping for breath; a hand on the floor to steady himself, but to no avail. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, _feelings_; they assaulted him in waves, his perceptions seeming to spread like a cup of water spilled on the ground.

He heard people chatting, birds singing, the ocean, wind in the trees; a panther was hunting a rabbit, a child escaped through a window; he tasted earth, water, blood. He felt his consciousness stretch, it reached each corner of the land; an owl swooped for a mouse, a great bonfire burned surrounded by yelling people, guards changed their shift. He perceived buildings, wine, cloth, leaves, axes, salt, laughter, howls, tears, urine, faeces. Then it all froze, in a second that seemed to stretch on and on, then shattered. Shattered like a mirror… seven years bad luck… the shards falling like rain… tearing through the air, the leaves, the flesh. Then darkness.

xox

Lucien opened his eyes. Or were they already open? Yes, they must have been, because there in front of him he saw the gates of the city he had left the previous night. But now the first rays of dawn were cast over the walls, glinting off the spears.

"Where's he been?" one of the guards asked the other.

"Mind your own damn business," growled Lucien. He had what he would bet was the worst hangover in history, and he had no patience for banal questions.

_Questions… Spoken… With words…_

His thumping mind worked slowly through the implications.

_Words I understood…_

His eyes widened. "You there," he pointed at the guard who had spoken, but was now looking dumbstruck, "What is your name and position?"

_Me?_ He mouthed, pointing to himself. Lucien nodded impatiently, and the guard spoke. "My name is Lorotho Maydin, I am a dawn shift gatekeeper."

Satisfied he understood each word; Lucien strolled off, much to the amazement of the two guards. Finding a secluded spot, he scaled the town wall and slipped into the city.

When he arrived back at his quarters, he found the woman who he had spoken with before looking about his room anxiously. Apparently he had been missed.

xox

Anton Filius stirred the teaspoon in his cup nervously as the woman seated opposite to him placed a thick roll of parchment on the coffee table separating them. Somehow a single coffee table didn't seem enough, and he felt very exposed sitting near this mysterious woman. The Orrery clanked and clunked into operation, that weird sense of motion assaulting him, as it powered up. The shock of being lead into the Orrery by his friend, Raith, to find two settees (one with a dangerous looking woman relaxing on it) and a table set with tea and biscuits had still not fully worn off.

Raith Revan eyed the parchment with interest, as the Archmage picked it up and began to examine it. Was this single scroll the reason he had been initiated into the Dark Brotherhood? It was an unpleasant feeling, thinking that the Listener's only interest in him was his connection to the Archmage. Unconciously, he ran his finger along the scabbard of the dagger She had given him; a beautiful ebony dagger.

Murmuring to himself as he read, the Archmage scanned down the parchment, eyebrows raised.

"This is the incantation for a teleportation spell," he surmised.

Loria's expression was stony. "I did not take the trouble to arrange this meeting simply to hear you state the obvious." Anton blanched at the coldness in her voice. "Please Archmage, tell me something I do not already know; for your own sake if not for mine."

The mage squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "The script is ancient; Velothi, if I'm not mistaken," he glanced up, and seeing the irritated twitch of the woman's mouth, he continued quickly. "The coordinates in the heavens to which it refers are here," he pointed to a small constellation to the far right of the room, "here and here," he pointed out two more points in the Orrery's ceiling.

"That would make it –"

"East southeast of Argonia, on the same latitude as Pyandonea, and in the middle of the Padomeic Ocean," the Archmage finished. Seeing the woman's stricken expression, he continued hastily, "if these coordinates are anything to go by, the creator of this spell must have believed there was a landmass in this area, roughly the size of Pyandonea."

"Can you recreate the magicka in that scroll?" she asked.

"No. I do not see any way you can reignite the magicka in that scroll. It would take one with greater power than I, or, perhaps, any mortal."

A smile crept its way onto Loria's dusky features, "That won't be a problem for me, actually."

xox

Lucien ran a soft cloth down the length of the Ebony Blade. Forged from the essence of a Daedric Lord, its wicked edge was eternally sharp; no rock, nor bone or armour could blunt its razor sharp edge. It had been a reward to his Silencer from the Daedric Prince Mephala, a reward for the murder of two innocent people. Those same murders observed by the Night Mother. _Strange_, thought Lucien,_ that she should be recruited to the Dark Brotherhood because of a task she performed for the patron of the hated Morag Tong._ And yet it seemed so right. Lucien had half expected the Webspinner to take back the Ebony Blade after Loria had given it to him.

The assassin put down both blade and cloth, and picked up a piece of parchment on a nearby desk. He skimmed through its contents once more, and, satisfied with what he had written, put it into a drawer, which he then locked.

Feeling like his old self again, now that he had control of his situation, not to mention a plan, Lucien rested for the remainder of the afternoon; then at dusk, he prepared to set out from the city once more.

With Kushiel's guidance, Lucien did not need to retrace his steps to find his way back to Nerfernis' tomb. He took a path that winded slightly around the mountain, avoiding a ravine to the east, following the straightest path possible back to the pyramid rising out of the jungle.

By the following midnight, Lucien had arrived back at the city with a satchel brimming with looted articles from the tomb.

He fetched the scroll that he had written from his desk, and glanced over it one final time to ensure it could be passed off as an authentic item from the tomb. Then he went back out into the streets. With the help of a few late night strollers, Lucien obtained the name of a pawnbroker with a big mouth and a small brain, and made a beeline.

Pulling down his hood so that it thoroughly obscured his features, he knocked twice on the wooden door. After a short wait, it opened a crack, through which Lucien could see a pair of beady little eyes.

"What do you want, stranger?" the pawnbroker's raspy voice cut through the dark.

"I have some goods you may be interested in," Lucien replied, keeping his tone carefully neutral and relatively unthreatening.

"Come back tomorrow –" the man began.

"I do not wish to come back tomorrow," Lucien interrupted firmly. "These are ancient artefacts, unique and valuable, from a tomb deep in the jungle."

This seemed to catch the man's attention. "Tomb robbing is a serious crime…" he muttered. "You'd better come in."

The door creaked open, revealing a musty, dank hallway. The stone floor was covered in a layer of dirt that ascended near the walls, leaving only a well trodden trail through the building that was relatively dirt free. Though it was dark, Lucien could see dark smears all over the walls, and there was a rancid smell like rotting meat emanating from somewhere deeper in the house. A large shaggy black dog materialised out of one doorway, bringing a foul smell of its own to the mix. The pawnbroker barked something unintelligible at it, and it slunk off at once.

When they reached a larger, better lit room with a vast stone counter in the middle, the man gestured to the table, and Lucien deposited his wares. The pawnbroker fell upon the satchel, examining its contents, muttering to himself. He pulled out some jewellery, a cracked mirror, a statuette, a book, and a number of scrolls. After eyeing them all over, he turned to his customer. "Five hundred juits," he offered.

Kushiel had opened his eyes to many things, but the value of currency was beyond the knowledge of the land, and so Lucien had no idea how much a juit was worth, so he improvised. "Those goods are worth at least half as much again."

"Ha! Haha, you jest, my friend, surely!" the pawnbroker laughed, but seeing Lucien's mouth set in a thin, impatient line he said "six hundred and twenty. That is a fair price, no?"

"No." Lucien replied. "But make it six seven five and we have a deal."

The other man seemed to deliberate on this a while, before holding out his hand, "deal."

Lucien shook his hand, and received a pouch of coins, which he checked. Then he turned and left the hovel. "A pleasure doing business with you, my friend!" called the pawnbroker. "Remember me if you happen across any other lost treasures!"

Lucien smiled as he vanished into the dark. With the scroll now in the loud mouth's possession, it would not be long before its forged contents made its way to the ears of the entire city's underground. Then they would all know exactly what to do to arrange a secret murder.


	8. Pastries and Parties

**Chapter 8 - Pastries and Parties**

It was dawn in Bliss. The pale gold sky was shot through with streaks of pink and aqua. The inhabitants of New Sheoth were beginning to emerge and go about their daily madness.

On the roof of _The Choosy Beggar_, Sheogorath was enjoying a cup of tea and a pain-au-chocolat, accompanied by a heron and a pair of mangy old basketball shoes. After nibbling all the pastry from around the centre, Sheogorath threw the chocolate to the floor, where it was quickly devoured by the heron.

The shoes burped.

Taking a sip from the dainty china teacup, Sheogorath gave a protracted sigh, and summoned Haskill.

"Yes, my lady?" came the bored voice of the Breton.

"Haskill, long time no see," she said.

"Indeed, my lady. It has been many months since you last _graced_ the Shivering Isles with your presence," he deadpanned.

"No it hasn't, Haskill."

"But you just admitted it – you said 'Long time – '"

"No I didn't."

With a forlorn sigh, Haskill capitulated. "Of course, my lady. My mistake. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"

"I wish to hold a Daedric Party."

For a moment, Haskill was speechless. "I don't think that's a good idea, my lady. You see, your apotheosis notwithstanding, the other daedric princes regard you as variously a joke, an insult or a curiosity. Sometimes a curiously insulting joke."

"What's your point?"

"Just that you are not popular in Oblivion," said Haskill, brutally. "Azura might turn up, even Meridia, but other than that…"

"Haskill, you wield the truth like a blunt claymore," said Sheogorath. "But even just Azura would be fine…"

"That would be more of a sermon than a party…"

"See this scroll?" she handed him a piece of parchment with the incantation for a teleportation scroll transcribed in ancient Velothi.

"Intriguing…" began Haskill.

"I want somebody to recreate the spell."

"How prosaic," muttered Haskill. "Very well, Loria – erm… I mean _Sheogorath_, I shall organise the invitations."

Ignoring Haskill's rather blatant slip of the tongue, Sheogorath turned her attention to the pair of old shoes; picking up crumbs from her plate and flicking them onto the floor, she sniggered as the shoes hurried over to hoover them all up.

xox

Lucien relaxed upon a sofa, occasionally taking a sip out of the large glass in his left hand. A fire blazed in a hearth in front of him. His dark eyes scanned the lines of the tome he was reading, as Kushiel stood motionless, staring into the darkened corners of their new hideout.

Lucien was really very pleased with the place he had discovered; it was a disused fane, located under the currently active temple. Kushiel had guided him to the entrance, which had obviously not been breached in centuries. Not only was it cool and dark, it was also decorated with the most exquisite carvings and paintings. Lucien had always appreciated the finer things in life, whether it was art, literature, music, food or drink. Indeed, he had yet to meet anyone with intelligence that didn't.

He turned a page in his book. _Fascinating_. The tome which he had removed from the tomb was a history of the country he was in. Apparently Nefernis was the founder of this city, and the last queen of Kush. Some of the text was faded and blurred from the centuries, and Lucien sighed in frustration – key parts of the text were obscured.

The passage Lucien was reading now was about the rights of succession – the throne of Kush was not passed down through birthright as in Cyrodiil, but the current queen's successor would be chosen by some impartial and indisputable method. Nefernis had been the last to be chosen for some reason – the text here was obscured. The rightful queen could always be known by the presence of something called 'The Royal Shadow'.

Lucien's eyes drifted upwards from the text as he recalled the paintings on the walls of the tomb depicting Nefernis; always accompanied by a shadow. His gaze alighted on the frozen figure of Kushiel, standing in the firelight. His shadow.

As the realisation dawned on him, he suddenly thought he had been rather rash in revealing Kushiel in front of so many people when he first arrived. She was the symbol of the rightful ruler of Kush! No wonder the guards were taken aback. This could be a problem; he guessed now that he had cause much more of a stir than he originally thought.

_Though,_ thought Lucien, _I don't think I could feasibly pass for a Queen._ Damn, was he glad Arquen wasn't around to hear this.

"Master," Kushiel spoke with a voice like the whispering wind. "Someone calls."

"Ah, my first customer. What excellent timing." His sarcasm was lost on the spirit. "Send me there."

xox

Shaila paced back and forth, wringing her delicate hands nervously. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but what alternative had she? She could run away from her life here, that was true, but where would she go? To one of the meagre villages outside the city? Life outside the Capital's walls was no life at all, though. Unless she went to the _other_ place.

She shuddered at the thought. _Though no doubt after tonight I will fit right in there,_ she thought bitterly. But it was no use; she had already performed the ritual. _But perhaps it is a joke? Perhaps it will not work?_ Part of her hoped that the summoning wouldn't work, but another part, the desperate part, knew it was her only hope to escape a life she dreaded.

_What if it's a trick?_ She thought, suddenly panicked. _What if the guard thought it up as a trap to catch murderers?_ Her heartbeats were now coming painfully fast. She was just about to turn and flee into the night, when a deep, rich voice floated out of the dark.

"Leaving so soon, milady?"

xox

Lucien waited for a moment to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. His contact was here, he saw. A young woman; obviously nervous, she was slight, of average height, not unattractive. Further inspection revealed her to have waist length dark hair, olive skin and green eyes. She also appeared to be about to flee.

"Leaving so soon, milady?" he said.

She gave a gratifying little gasp and turned to face him.

"My name is Lucien Lachance, and I am a speaker for –", Lucien paused, what was he a speaker for? The Black Hand? "For the Dread Lord Sithis," he compromised. "You desire the death of another, and we are only too happy to oblige. Tell me of the target."

The woman seemed to calm down when she was not asked to divulge anything of herself, and began to speak. "His name is Galadon Krichen," she began. "He is a member of the council. My parents have arranged for us to be married, but he is a vile man. He is bad tempered and hairy, he smells, he's rude, he's got rotten teeth, and he makes crude noises in public!"

Lucien's iron discipline prevented the corners of his mouth from twitching. _Truly,_ he thought, _Oblivion hath no fury like a woman scorned._ Out loud he said; "then he shall die. The price is three hundred juits."

The woman winced, but handed over three heavy bags of coins. "This is –"…

"Strictly confidential, of course," finished Lucien.

The woman seemed reassured, and a smile tugged at her lips as she bid him farewell.

_Ah,_ _this is what it's all about,_ thought the assassin contentedly.

xox

Loria shifted in her throne. She felt slightly discomforted at receiving fifteen acceptances to her invitations. Hadn't Haskill said she was unpopular? Were the other Daedric Princes conspiring against her? She was willing to bet Molag Bal was up to something nasty. Probably involving cream pies.

She tossed another stuffed squirrel onto the barbeque.


	9. A Token of Worth

**Chapter 9 - A Token of Worth**

Lucien wiped the blood from his blade; it seemed that Mehrunes Razor still worked here, wherever _here_ was, as he had felt the familiar tingle when Mehrunes Dagon claimed another soul.

Stepping over the corpse of the unfortunate man Shaila was supposed to marry (though upon meeting him, Lucien could fully understand her desperation – the man positively _reeked_), the assassin strode from the council building under cover of an invisibility spell. Slipping silently between the two guards posted at the entrance to the building, he vanished into the winding streets, making his way back to his hideout.

He was just passing a small and lively looking tavern, when he saw what was unmistakeably an artist's rendition of his face, staring back at him from a sheet of paper on the ground. The picture was surrounded by text, leaving Lucien in little doubt that this was a newspaper article of some kind. Blinking incredulously, he read the headline:

_Mystery Foreigner The New Queen of Kush?_

He cursed. Now every client he met would recognise him as their new _queen_! To say that this would be bad for business would be a pitiful understatement. How was he supposed to appear menacing when people were visualising him in a crown and a dress?

Grabbing the paper from the floor, he cursed again as this action dispelled his invisibility. A couple of drunks gasped, and began to point. Renewing his invisibility, he stormed off; the rational part of his mind wondering if people would be able to follow the noise made by the grinding of his teeth.

_Contacts!_ He seethed. _I need contacts. How am I supposed to function here completely bereft of information?_

He was halfway to his underground lair, when he turned about suddenly, and made instead for the home of the pawnbroker he had duped into buying a bogus scroll. The man himself was not the kind of person Lucien was interested in; someone like that would never be able to keep his mouth shut. But surely he would know someone who could?

xox

"A chip dip, my lady?" droned Haskill.

"No, no, no." said Loria. "Well, yes, maybe. But we'll need something else as well. Something impressive. Oooh, roast Daedroth?"

"I believe the meat can be somewhat rubbery, my lady."

"Winged Twilight a l'orange?"

"Might that not offend Azura?"

"Fillet of Ogrim, then," Loria decided.

"But Malacath – "

"Oh, who cares what Malacath thinks?" Loria cut short Haskill's objection.

"Very well, Lady Sheogorath. Ogrim it is."

Loria twirled a lock of blue black hair around her finger absently. "Haskill?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"Nothing."

Haskill narrowed his eyes. A protracted pause, and then –

"Haskill?" she said again.

With a long suffering sigh, Haskill said again "_Yes_, Lady Sheogorath?"

"Do you think the other Daedra Lords are planning something nasty?"

"Yes, Sheogorath." Came Haskill's bored reply. "Especially Molag Bal. And Sanguine. Malacath won't like the Ogrim, but as you so eloquently said: 'who cares what Malacath thinks?' Oh don't pout, my lady."

Loria scowled.

xox

"Aye, I know the one you need," wheezed the pawnbroker, eyeing Lucien curiously as they stood again in his meeting room. A glass of dark liquor stood untouched in front of the assassin. "Lady named Chaiya, lives up on the north side o' town. Watch out for drunks. And crazy folks," the broker took a swig from his own glass, then began to trace a crude map in the putrefaction coating the table top.

"Excellent," smiled Lucien, his gloved hand placing a small bag of coins on the filthy countertop. "I must take my leave."

He turned swiftly to go, but was held back by a bony hand with thick, long, yellow nails. Perhaps the pawnbroker noticed the dangerous twitch of Lucien's mouth, because he let go immediately.

"You'll be needing this," he held up a tarnished silver coin, embossed with a strange symbol. "So she knows you're a friend." Lucien took the coin without a word and swept out of the decaying house.

Standing on the corner of the street, Lucien pondered his next move. A plan had begun to form itself in his mind regarding his predicament with his unwanted fame, and he was eager to pursue it, but he forced himself to turn north instead, towards his new contact. He had been acting without intel for far too long, it was time to regain control.

He marched swiftly through the streets, following the directions given to him by the pawnbroker. Gradually the tidy stone houses gave way to more run down buildings, rubbish was strewn in the streets, and mangy old dogs lingered on street corners. The strange stars shone bright in the sky, and Lucien had just raised his head to observe them, hoping to find some familiar pattern, when something flew over his head and smashed against the wall to his left.

Instinctively, Lucien looked left to see what had smashed – it was a bottle – and paid for it by receiving another in the back. Pulling out the Razor, Lucien turned to his attacker – a drunken man sporting a ludicrous cape, but was shoved viciously from behind, and tumbled to the floor. Somewhat dazed, he heard sounds that could only be described as a demented chicken. Picking himself up, he turned to face whatever had shoved him, but caught two hands in the chest and was knocked over backwards, Mehrunes Razor flying out of his hand. He got a good look at this second foe; a twisted, half-starved lunatic.

Fuming with rage and indignity, whilst the retard advanced on him yet again, Lucien cast a strong chameleon spell, leapt up and retrieved the Razor. Itching as he was to finish off the fools stupid enough to attack him, he decided that _more_ publicity was not what he needed right now, so slipped away, the pawnbroker's words echoing in his head: _watch out for drunks and crazy folks._

No one in Tamriel, not even drunks and crazy people, would have assaulted a man armed to the teeth and cloaked in black, prowling the streets in the dead of night. They were all too afraid of the Dark Brotherhood. These people were just not afraid. _But they will be,_ thought Lucien, his frustrated snarl twisting into an evil grin. _They will be._

xox

"Streamers, balloons, party poppers," Loria counted them off on her fingers, "glow sticks, bubble machine, Vodka jelly…" she frowned in concentration.

"Fireworks, my lady?" suggested Haskill.

"Absolutely!" she beamed. "Glitter spray, sparklers, confetti, chocolate fountain, champagne pyramid…"

"The bouncy castle is here, my lady," interrupted Haskill.

"Set it up outside!" she said. "Have the lighting mages arrived yet?" Haskill shook his head. "Tell them I want UV inside, and Technicolor outside. Make sure the magnification spells are in place, so the bards will be heard all over the palace. Is so-and-so back with my outfit yet?"

"Not yet, my lady Sheogorath," said Haskill. "You know, I'm not sure fancy dress is quite the thing –"

"You're just jealous that you didn't think of it!" she yelled, as a pair of scissors snipped happily around the chandelier.

xox

"I'm here to see Chaiya," said Lucien, black hood drawn low over his face. As the wind blew, he caught another whiff of the alcohol that had soaked his robes when he had been hit with the bottle. Apparently the guards he was talking to smelled it as well, as they crinkled their noses. Lucien flashed the coin the pawnbroker had given him clearly in front of their eyes, and with a flick of the wrist stowed away it again.

The guards, who had seemed about to protest, merely nodded and stepped aside at the sight of the token. Chaiya's abode appeared to be a dilapidated old warehouse, mildew coating the walls, which were crumbling in places. Preparing himself for another assault on his senses, he stepped through the rotting old front door.

Into an elegant and immaculate hallway. The floor was laid with large tiles made of a stone which resembled alabaster; the walls were a pale cream, and flawless. A butler approached Lucien as he entered.

"I desire an audience with Chaiya," he said in his most authoritative tone. The Butler bowed slightly, and gestured for Lucien to follow.

"Right this way, sir," he said. Apparently the token the pawnbroker had given to him was worth something after all. He was lead into a room dominated by a marble fountain, the water from which threw a dancing pattern on the ceiling. Lucien noted with surprise that there was a small channel running from the fountain basin out through a hole in the far wall.

"Chaiya will be with you shortly," he said.

Lucien chose a likely looking shadow to wait in, and went over in his mind what he was here to find out, his thoughts periodically punctured by curiosity about his newest contact.

* * *

A/N: The drunks and retards depicted in this chapter are borrowed from the game Assassin's Creed, by Ubisoft; they're marvellously enraging. Apologies to anyone offended by the use of the word 'retard', but there really aren't that many politically correct terms for 'crazy person' – no offence was intended.


	10. Tremors and Traitors

A/N: Profuse apologies for the long delay between updates – I went sailing for two weeks and nearly didn't come back…

* * *

**Chapter 10 - Tremors and Traitors**

A door in the far wall opened, and out stepped a woman; she had cocoa coloured hair which fell in ringlets around her face and shoulders, and chocolate skin. She was dressed in a gown that would have once been magnificent, but it was torn and darkened with age. Her person was littered with charms and trinkets; rings, pendants, hair ornaments. Her black eyes were lined with kohl. She seemed to glide across the floor towards Lucien; surreal and ghostly.

Following his instincts, Lucien said nothing, thinking – with a nostalgic smile – of his silencer, as the strange woman slowly began to circle him. Curbing his irritation at being treated like an exhibit in a zoo, Lucien waited until Chaiya had finished her thorough examination of him, then locked gazes with her. She did not blink, or break their stare. Her liquid black orbs seemed to give way like water before his blazing brown glare, yielding yet leading him at the same time.

Chaiya spoke first. "What is it you desire of me, traveller from a distant land?"

"Nothing but information," Lucien replied smoothly.

"What could I tell you that Kush herself can not?"

Lucien paused, "I know everything there is to know about the land itself, but little about the society here. Kushiel is not a great conversationalist."

"Perhaps you are simply not listening?" Chaiya spoke in an even voice, betraying no emotion.

_Kushiel's not the only one, it seems,_ thought Lucien. What was one to say to a statement like that? "You seem to know something about my new, ah, _associate_," he ventured. "Perhaps you can be persuaded to share your knowledge?"

Chaiya looked thoughtful. "Call her."

Lucien bridled at this apparent order. "For what purpose?"

"I wish to confirm with my own eyes that you, a stranger here, have indeed won the loyalty of our land," she replied serenely.

"Kushiel," Lucien called the spirit. Obediently, the shadows of the room lengthened and took shape. The slender figure of Kushiel stepped into the room; skin so dark she seemed to absorb the meagre light in the room. Chaiya circled the spirit as she had circled Lucien, though Kushiel gave no sign that she had noticed the woman's presence in the room.

Bowing low to her master, the shadow looked up at him with those infinite, inquiring eyes, and Chaiya continued to circle, growing closer and closer. At last the woman's face was inches from the spirit's flowing shadow-hair, and she seemed to take a deep _sniff_, before running her finger up the shadow's spine.

Lucien felt a pang of anger – or was it jealousy? – at her presumption, and instantly Chaiya snapped her hand back as if burned, though looking supremely satisfied.

"I see the rumours are true," she said. "Very well, I shall lend you my assistance, such as it is," she eyed the shadow-spirit.

"What payment do you require?" Years of dealing in information had taught Lucien that nothing of import came cheaply.

"Nothing in particular, merely an… alliance?"

Lucien considered her request. A 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours' arrangement seemed a very reasonable price, and with Kushiel's allegiance, Lucien would be the one with the power in such an agreement. "Very well," he held out his hand to shake on it, but Chaiya just looked at it curiously, as if maybe Lucien was offering to give her something she couldn't see.

He withdrew it with a touch of impatience, and said stiffly "we have an agreement. So, first would you kindly explain the recent newspaper headline about me?"

Chaiya smiled that enigmatic smile. "Historically, our monarch has always been selected through mastery of that amulet you are wearing. She was always female, and ruled the united land of Kush. Kushiel was the symbol of rule, and was depicted as the Royal Shadow.

"The last Queen was Nefernis, but when she passed away, Kushiel would not grant her allegiance to any who thought themselves worthy, and so the kingdom was sundered. You stand now in the City of Light. Thirty leagues to the northeast lies the city of Old Kush, previously the seat of power of our monarch, and the crown jewel of our land. But we do not have dealings with them any longer. They have descended into darkness and barbarity."

Chaiya spoke with the carefully measured tones of someone who, through long practice, had affected a distaste for those things abhorred in a society, but which she personally found enticing. Lucien had heard that tone so often during his career with the Dark Brotherhood.

"I need – " Lucien was cut off as the ground beneath his feet was seized with violent tremors. The building shook like a child's rattle, throwing Lucien and Chaiya to the floor; the ear-splitting rumbling was punctuated with the smash of objects, and the distant shouts and screams of the city's inhabitants.

As suddenly as it came, the shaking subsided. Lucien looked around, but Chaiya was gone. Only Kushiel stood there, indifferent. He made his way swiftly from the house, and through the streets, which were showing obvious signs of distress from the tremor, taking care to avoid the oblivious drunks and retards (whose worlds must shake on a daily basis). He pushed his way through a crowd outside the council building, and stopped at the end of a large, deep fissure marring the neat stonework of the street.

Most disturbing was the extent to which the locals seemed panicked by the shaking. Lucien had heard of lands which suffered from violent shaking, tearing up the ground and felling buildings, but these people were acting as though they had never seen or heard of such a thing before. Compulsively pulling down his hood, Lucien fled the scene.

xox

"How do I look?"

"Very good."

"Will the other daedric princes be able to tell it's me?"

"Oh yes," droned Haskill as he observed the platypus.

xox

Arquen tapped her fingers upon her desk impatiently. "Banus is angry."

"Banus is always angry," countered Belisarius. "He was angry as a child; I still have the scars."

"Our listener has disappeared!" Arquen spat, furious with Belisarius' nonchalance.

"Do you suspect foul play?" asked the Imperial.

"Perhaps. The traitor, Lachance, escaped – he alone was a match for Loria."

"So you think she is dead?"

"How should I know?" the High Elf hissed. "She seemed to be settling into her role; she was recruiting heavily for days, then – nothing! Gone!"

"Did you notice that our new recruits all share something in common?"

"How could I not? All carbon copies of that damned Lachance," the Elf's lips curled in a sneer. "And did it occur to you that her _infatuation_ with him would have made it so much easier for him to do away with her?"

"But why would he do that?" countered the Imperial. "He had a willing tool, one that would have followed any order, no matter what. Why should he dispose of such a powerful asset?"

"I don't know!" she yelled. "But _something's_ happened! And the attacks haven't stopped!"

"They haven't? Apart from our dear Listener, who else had disappeared?" asked Belisarius.

"Are you forgetting Mattieu?"

"I hardly think that the horde of angry daedra that carried him off the other night really fits the style of our traitor."

Arquen made an inarticulate snarl and stormed from the room, watched steadily by the placid Imperial.

xox

"Are all the party games ready?" asked the platypus.

"Musical thrones, whack the scamp," Haskill ticked them off on his fingers, "pin the tail on the traitor… Yes, I believe they're ready."

If platypuses could smile, this one would be beaming fondly at the prostrate form of a Breton man in dark robes, immobilised at one end of the hall.


	11. Simulacrum

**Chapter 11 – Simulacrum**

Lucien paced back and forwards across the cold stone floor of his new sanctum. Outside, it was raining fire. It had been like this since a few minutes before midnight, and the terrified shrieks and wails from the city's inhabitants had become like the background noise of the thunder, and the roar of the flames as the land burned. Lucien was reminded forcibly of the Oblivion crisis, except that then it had never actually rained fire (unless you count the rain of burning dogs in Border Watch, and Lucien had a fair idea who was behind _that_.)

He had been very busy over the last few days; contracts had taken up most of his time as the word had spread rapidly about the new 'service' available in town, but work had ground to a halt when flames began to pour from the heavens. It was only last week that the earth had shaken and ripped apart, and now this… Lucien was beginning to suspect that there was some unknown force at work here. However, he could glean nothing from his link with Kushiel; their bond had grown stronger over the last few days, and Lucien could detect nothing that would cause these strange phenomena. But now, with the drop in demand for his services, he had time to pursue his plan. It was time to visit Chaiya again.

xox

Raith Revan stared dolefully at the dregs of tea in his cup as he swirled them idly about. He had been waiting on a bench outside of Arquen's office for the last hour, and he still had no clue as to why the Altmer had called for him. He had had two contracts since he joined, and had fulfilled them both with little trouble, so he was sure he had done nothing wrong. Besides, breaking the rules was supposed to invoke the wrath of Sithis, not Speakers. He had not heard anything from Loria for a while, but the other members of the sanctuary assured him this was normal.

Just as he had begun to ponder stretching out and catching up on some sleep, the door to Arquen's office swung wide, and the High Elf beckoned him in with an imperious finger. Hesitantly, he rose and followed her into the dimly lit chamber. The mer gestured for him to sit in a chair which rested in a pool of light from the candelabra opposite her desk. Feeling like he was being taken in for interrogation, Raith sat in the chair, and squinted out at Arquen as she settled herself behind her desk.

After regarding her victim for a time, she cleared her throat and spoke in careful, clipped tones. "I understand you met with the Listener some days ago?"

Seeing no reason to lie, the Imperial answered "Yes, she asked to be introduced to the new Archmage of the mages guild."

"For what purpose?"

Raith paused. He knew of no reason to keep that information secret; the Listener had not asked him to, yet somehow he was reticent to tell her – surely Loria would have told the Black Hand of her plans if they were supposed to know?

"_Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior_," Arquen quoted. "Why did the Listener meet with Anton Filius?"

"She wanted him to examine a scroll she had."

"What kind of scroll?"

"It was an ancient Dunmeri teleportation scroll," Raith reluctantly revealed. "But its power was spent; she wanted to know the destination of the spell, and how to revive the magicka in it."

Arquen's expression shifted from surprise to satisfaction, and Raith felt a wave of shame at revealing the Listener's private business to her subordinates, but what recourse did he have?

"Thank you, Revan, you have been very helpful. May you walk always in the shadow of Sithis, dear brother."

"And you as well."

The Imperial rose from his seat and slunk from the room, not noticing a figure step out of the shadows.

"So," said Banus, "Lachance teleported himself using this scroll, and Loria went off to find him."

"It seems unlikely, then, that Lachance is behind the disappearance of Bellamont after all, and it looks like Loria left of her own accord." Arquen's tone was disgruntled. "Meanwhile the Brotherhood continues to suffer! Prayers to the Night Mother must be going unanswered as the Listener is neglecting her duties because of this… obsession with Lachance. Steps must be taken."

"You have my support," Banus answered. "But Bellisarius will object, as will Vicente."

"That bloodsucker should never have been made a speaker!" spat the elf.

"There was no one more qualified among our ranks, and we need four speakers, always," replied Banus. "But he agreed to the promotion only as a favour to Loria; he will stand down when he is no longer needed."

Arquen snorted. "Sooner."

xox

Lucien raised a bored eyebrow as Chaiya made her eerie way towards him.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" she crooned.

"I require… ah… assistance," replied the assassin. "I need a woman."

Chaiya looked the Imperial up and down, appraisingly. "I think I can help with that," she smiled mysteriously.

Lucien narrowed his dark eyes. "Not _that_ kind of assistance." He lifted her delicate chocolate hand from the front of his robe. "I need an assistant. A female assistant. One who can act."

The look of disappointment lingered only for a moment on Chaiya's angular features. "It will be arranged," she said, and glided out of the room without further ado.

Lucien did the same, with only a fleeting feeling of consternation at being dismissed so unceremoniously. Winding his way back through the streets of the City of Light, he kept to the shadows, sniggering to himself as he saw a hapless traveller fall victim to the ever voracious retards that littered the place. He walked past the fissure in the road, a relic of the recent earthquake, and wondered briefly when the council would see fit to mend it – in Cheydinhal it would have been fixed at once.

He opened the door to his hideout to find a statuesque blonde woman draped over his brand new desk.

xox

Loria sat regally on her throne. One by one, the Daedra Lords were arriving, and their aides introducing them to the new Lady of Madness.

Not that they really needed it.

First to arrive was Azura in a crescent moon and star ensemble. Then came Meridia, who was a kind of haze of light in a rather lively shade. They were both quite friendly, and complemented Loria on her costume.

Next came Sanguine; he sashayed into the great hall in five inch stilettos, a blood red bra and thong set, and full length stockings and suspenders. Loria could only assume he was meant to be a whore, and tried desperately to pretend that she couldn't see what was under the thong. His lecherous comments to the platypus were interrupted by the arrival of the next guest; Clavicus Vile was cleverly disguised as a hound, and bounded over to lick the platypus' anus in greeting.

Next to arrive were what Loria took to be Nocturnal and Vaermina; a fog of impenetrable darkness and something that shifted constantly between various horrific images. Loria avoided looking at the latter; the constant shifting made her feel slightly queasy.

"_She's_ not going to win the best costume competition," whispered the platypus to Haskill.

At this point Loria noticed an Ogre skulking in the corner, and could only assume that Malacath had arrived at some point and she hadn't noticed. Her musings were interrupted as the floor began to shake. Wineglasses rattled on the table; the chip dip shuddered dangerously close to the edge, and the giant feather duster in the centre began to sneeze.

Then the door exploded, and in stomped the red skin and numerous arms of Mehrunes Dagon.

"I hope he's planning on paying for that door!" squeaked the platypus indignantly.

"Psh, always has to make an entrance," scoffed Meridia.

"Hey Big M!" called Sanguine. "It's not Halloween you know, what's with the costume?" An exaggerated expression of dawning realisation crossed his features. "Oh! That's your face!"

"Ahem – lame – ahem," coughed the Clavicus dog. Or it might have been Barbas.

Before Mehrunes could respond to the jeers of his peers, he was hustled aside by a werewolf and a dragon.

"Ah, Peryite, that is so lame!" Clavicus called to the dragon.

The dragon snorted. "Because your costume is _so_ original."

Another argument was interrupted by the arrival of the next guest. A book. It waddled in by its corners. There was a moment of silence, then everyone went back to their conversations. Even if they weren't really having one.

Next came the shock of the evening.

In walked an entity so boring, that Loria could not bear to look at it. Indeed, her mind could not even comprehend its mind numbingly prosaic appearance. A hushed whisper ran through the crowd: _Jyggalag had gatecrashed_!

Conversation did not start up again. One or two guests yawned. Haskill sidled up to the platypus.

"This is bad, my lady," he said, sounding, if possible, even more bored than usual.

The platypus just stared unseeingly at the daedric prince of order.

"Jyggalag is the world's worst party pooper. Even worse than Malacath," he nodded at the Ogre now staring at the wall; drooping ears enhancing the general aura of stupidity surrounding it.

But Loria was already in the grip of the deadly vapidity, and the entire party was quickly following suit. Haskill had long since begun to lose hope, but just as he began to wonder why he wasn't being affected by the earth shattering mundaneness, 'help' arrived in the form of a giant slug, oozing foul smelling pus from various orifices. Everyone in the vicinity of the tangible stench that followed Namira around was shaken from their listlessness, and began to wretch.

With the party rapidly going downhill after only half an hour, Haskill decided to take action. Whipping the tablecloth out from under the food on the table, he ushered the two newest arrivals into a corner by themselves, and covered them with the cloth. Unfortunatly, there was now nothing to eat, as all the food had been thrown to the floor.

Only Sanguine really looked disappointed.

Released from the deathly uninspiring rays of Jyggalag, or the gut-twisting nausea of Namira, the gathering quickly went back to their conversations. Except for Malacath. He continued to stare at the wall.

xox

Lucien stared at his sanctum's new décor as she slipped off the desk and made her way over to him. With an elaborate bow that revealed far too much of her cleavage to be entirely plausible, she introduced herself to the assassin.

"My name is Miss Haise," she spoke in honeyed tones. "I was sent here by lady Chaiya to _assist_ you."

Lucien sighed testily. "Follow me; stick close."

xox

Just late enough to be fashionable, but not enough to be rude; in came Vivec, accompanied by Almalexia.

"Bal's not here yet?" Vivec scanned the room briefly.

Almalexia was looking at the moon and star with a scowl on her face. "Azura, you spoil sport! You were supposed to complete our ensemble; where's Sotha Sil?"

The moon and star twinkled mysteriously. "I must have missed that message, Boethiah," it said.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack, and the lights went out. A horn sounded from the doorway, and when the lights came on again, in walked… Loria.

There was a moment of silence as the whole room did a double take, before Nocturnal piped up. "…Bal?"

The Loria simulacrum split into a wide grin, and the room burst into applause.

* * *

A/N: I know I've said it before, but I really will try to be more forthcoming with updates in future! As for this chapter... well I don't really like it. It was much longer, so I split it in two. So expect the next chapter - 'Splatypus' - to be up soon! :)


	12. Splatypus

And once again I must apologise for my appalling lateness! I've been away for a few months on a boat, which didn't leave much opportunity for writing (and no opportunity for netting!). But all the same… I've been thinking I should get a Beta, if nothing else they could kick my arse until I get writing! If anyone's interested send me a PM.

* * *

**Chapter 12 – Splatypus**

Vicente turned another page in the volume of forgotten lore over which he pondered, as he sat reclining upon a cushioned seat, the light of the dying fire working its shadow on the floor. The vampires eyes stayed trained on the text as he took a sip from the glass of port on the little table next to his chair, and spoke; "Good evening, Belisarius."

The aging Imperial man stepped out of the shadows which could not conceal him from the vampire's superior senses. "Vicente," he greeted. "I trust you are settling in to your new position?"

"It's quite a bother," the vampire murmured. "But a temporary one, and the perks are rather nice." He took another sip from his glass, "an excellent vintage, and very difficult to acquire." He raised his glass to toast to his fellow Speaker in thanks. "Can I pour you a glass?"

"Thank you," the Imperial smiled, pulling up another violet velvet lined chair. "These are difficult times, as you are aware," the Speaker began.

"I understand," interrupted the vampire, handing his visitor a glass of the deep purple liquid. "The disappearance of our Listener has everyone on edge, especially after the _unpleasantness_ of that traitor business." Vicente placed a marker in his tome before closing it and setting it on the table next to his port. "And I suppose many feel… undermined… by my – ah – rather _convenient_ reassignment before the purification."

Belisarius nodded slightly, taking a sip from his own glass. "Arquen in particular resents your promotion to Speaker status, and while she would not have dared act against you when you had the support of our Listener, now that she is gone…" the Imperial allowed the sentence to hover meaningfully.

"Gone?" Vicente's pale eyebrows raised in inquiry. "I had not heard from her for some time, but I assumed her duties had her occupied."

"Did you not know of the plan between her and Lucien Lachance?" It was the Imperial's turn for raised eyebrows. "I thought they would have included you; Lucien trusted you so."

"You do not believe that Lucien was the traitor?" he inquired shrewdly.

"It makes no sense," shrugged Belisarius. "Lucien was far too intelligent to form such a plan when he has had unrestricted access to the Black Hand for years."

"But you went with the Black Hand to Apple Watch," the vampire stated. "You would have helped kill Lucien along with the others."

"Certainly," the Imperial admitted nonchalantly. "Lachance was unpopular with the Black Hand; professional jealousy no doubt, but I had to choose a side, and I judged that Arquen would be the victor. Besides," he took another sip of port, "it has been far too long since I partook in a kill."

"You mentioned a plan between Lucien and Loria," Vicente inquired impassively.

"Yes indeed," Belisarius nodded, setting his glass down on the table beside Vicente's book. "You know, no doubt, that Lachance disappeared from the house where we had him cornered." Vicente inclined his head in acknowledgement, and Belisarius continued. "It has come to light that he teleported away by means of a scroll given to him by Loria for that express purpose. Where he went is unknown, even to the Listener herself, but it seems she is determined to find out, hence her recent disappearance."

"You believe she has gone wherever Lachance has gone?"

"Our intel is that she hasn't yet found out; or rather, she knows where the scroll goes, but has yet to find a means to get there."

"Then where is she?" asked the vampire. "And where is Matthieu Bellamont?"

"That remains unknown." The Imperial leant forwards in his chair, lowering his voice conspiratorially; "and that, as much as anything, has me worried."

Vicente smiled inwardly; as he sensed that they were finally nearing the reason for Belisarius' impromptu social call. "And why is that?" he prompted.

Belisarius licked his lips nervously, he had judged that Vicente was trustworthy enough to confide his concerns, yet in this business it always paid to play things close to your chest. Nonetheless, he could not pursue this on his own. "I believe the Bellamont may be the true traitor."

"What makes you say that?"

"I still believe that the traitor had links with the Cheydinhal sanctuary, and given recent events, they would have had to have access to the Black Hand in some form." He paused; presumably for dramatic effect, Vicente thought. "That leaves Lucien and Matthieu. Bellamont was furious that Lachance escaped; far more so than I would have expected. It seemed… personal."

"It may be that he blamed Lucien for the deaths of his former sanctuary colleagues," the vampire reasoned.

"From what I understand he didn't get along with them all that well; he never expressed any dismay over the purification. If anything, he was… pleased. Moreover, it has come to my attention that he has an unhealthy sway over other members of the Black Hand. Arquen, in particular, seemed upset at his disappearance. His absence has weakened her…"

_Ah, the point emerges_, thought Vicente. He gave Belisarius a long hard calculating look, then, setting his port down once more, he stood and strode over to his desk. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked his bottom drawer and extracted a musty old book, still smelling faintly of decaying flesh. Returning to his seat, he handed the book to the Imperial man, who took it gingerly, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant smell. The vampire chuckled softly at his reaction. "You truly have been out of action too long if the smell of death offends you," he remarked.

"I would make a poor assassin if I lingered at the scene of the crime long enough to watch the evidence rot," he pointed out.

Vicente's chuckle turned to a laugh, as he conceded the point.

Belisarius opened the tome at the beginning, and proceeded to read each entry carefully, his every reaction observed closely by the vampire. At the end of an hour, the Imperial's eyes narrowed as he read the backwards conclusion of the diary, then closed it and set it down on top of Vicente's book, causing the vampire to wince in sympathy for his rare and priceless codex.

"This could only belong to Bellamont!" cried the Imperial in triumph.

"Indeed, unfortunately even Shadowmere was unable to get Loria from Anvil to Applewatch in time to stop you," noted Vicente.

Belisarius suppressed a shudder at the mention of Lachance's vicious horse. "That hardly matters now," he dismissed. "We have the evidence we need to pin the treachery on Bellamont, all we need is to find him."

"Ah, but what if he has already been found?" the vampire smirked.

xox

In the corner, Molag Bal and Boethiah were engaged in a rousing game of whack the scamp, egged on by Clavicus Vile and Meridia. Sanguine was unashamedly chatting up Haskill, who was looking wistfully at the whimpering Bellamont, as if wishing he could trade places with the Breton. Matthieu was glued to the wall, squealing as he was stuck with pins bearing wriggling oversized rattails, wielded by various blindfolded daedric princes. In the corner, Malacath was staring.

The platypus sidled up to a couch where Azura and Hermeus Mora were engaged in the only civilised conversation in the room. Well, she assumed it was civilised, but unfortunately, it was in a language which she couldn't understand. Sensing the approach of their host (Loria supposed that moons, stars and books couldn't actually _see_ her), the two conversationalists helpfully switched to Cyrodiilic.

"So they're generated by iteration of a map or the solution of a system of initial-value differential equations that exhibit chaos?" asked Azura

Hermaeus Mora nodded sagely, but turned to address the platypus who was listening intently and nodding in what she guessed were the right places. "I sense you have many questions to ask of us, none of which concern the nature of fractals."

The platypus told the two daedric princes about what had happened in the Dark Brotherhood, how a traitor had caused chaos from within, how the Black Hand had turned on its most loyal and skilful member. She told them about the scroll she had found, and where it went; she explained her desire to find her Speaker, and all the while the two daedric princes listened. When her tale was over, Hermaeus Mora was the first to speak.

"Lightning flashes, sparks shower, and in one blink of the eye, you have missed seeing."

Loria blinked. "Wha –?"

"Because it is so clear, it takes a longer time to realise it," he explained. "You must understand that the river tells no lies, yet standing at its shores the dishonest man still hears them."

"Interesting," she said, before the book could utter any more inanities. "But it doesn't really answer my question…"

Sensing an impending confrontation, Azura stepped in. "The answer is right before your eyes," she said, directing her gaze out of the window to the bouncy castle, where Vivec was performing some spectacular acrobatics.

"Mephala?" Asked the platypus. "Why would Mephala help me?"

"That's really a question you should be asking the androgyny," replied Azura shortly, before turning to the book-Mora, and continuing her cryptic conversation.

Steeling herself, the platypus scampered across the great hall, dodging Sanguine as he tried to spray her with UV glitter, but coming up short when she was confronted by herself, wielding several cans of silly string, all aimed in her direction. Molag Bal let rip.

xox

Lucien's temper, so easily roused these days, was on the rise again. His new 'help' had finally shut up, but was now walking several paces behind him, and he could feel her gaze burning his ass as she checked it out. He gave a passing rat the kind of stare that would have had anyone in Tamriel quivering in their boots. But _she _wasn't wearing boots. She was wearing shoes. _High heeled_ shoes. He aimed a vicious kick at a strange bug-eyed creature that was staring at him. It dodged. She giggled. He snapped.

A depraved smile on his face, he spun round, whipped out the Ebony Blade, and pounced.

A shrill squeal echoed up from the rainforests of Kush, putting all the birds within a half mile radius to flight. One hand wrapped itself around her scrawny neck, the other pressed the point of the Ebony Blade into her midsection. "Listen to me carefully," he growled. "You will do as I say, and only as I say. You will keep your mouth shut." He increased the pressure with the Ebony Blade, just enough to break the skin and activate the life draining magicka of the sword. The woman whimpered as she felt the life slowly start to drain out of her. "Shhhh," whispered the assassin; the woman quieted at once, her eyes wide as saucers. "You will speak when spoken to." He pressed a little harder, smirking as the wench began to tremble. "One more sound, the tiniest squeak, and I will cut your throat and do this by myself. Do you understand?"

His hapless victim nodded frantically, desperately trying to suppress the squeak that was eking its way up her throat. In the blink of an eye, the assassin had sheathed his blade and released her, and was once again making his silent way through the jungle. Now she realised why Chaiya had warned her not to upset him, and suddenly she was struck with the suspicion that it was he who was behind the recent murders in the City of Light.

Now following at a respectful distance, she kept her eyes trained over his left shoulder, and studiously ignored his rather fine ass. _Murdering _ass, she corrected herself. Yet as volatile and dangerous as the man was, it was hard not to admire the graceful way he moved through the trees; it was almost as though obstacles in his path were stray beams of light that fled from his shadow as he approached. _But it's the other way around_, she reminded herself. _Shadows flee the light_. Yet watching the assassin, she found that hard to visualise, indeed, she began to wonder how she could have ever believed such a thing.

xox

A writhing mass of neon green worms arrived at the bouncy castle. It went unnoticed until its venomous ankle spur ripped into the side of the bouncy castle, which rapidly began to deflate with a klaxon-like wail. Panic ensued as various daedric princes attempted to flee the wilting structure; some beating the flaccid walls in an attempt to find an exit, others endeavouring to tear a breach through which they could escape. When all of the party goers were accounted for except for Mephala, the silly string covered platypus steeled herself, and ventured into the depths of the deflated bouncy castle.

The suffocating mass of yellow rubber pressed down on her like a hundred feet of ocean. The heat intensified with every step, until the platypus was covered in sweat, and beginning to fear for her life. Just as she was about to give up and attempt to retrace her steps to freedom, she came across a pocket of air preserved in the depths of the beast. In the middle of the clearing slept Mephala, Vivec's form bathed in a cheerful yellow light. Loria sidled up to the slumbering daedric prince and cleared her throat.

Mephala slept on.

Sighing, the platypus proceeded to batter the androgyny about the face with her fatty tail.

"Alright, alright!" Mephala stirred, fixing the platypus with a formulating stare. "What do you want?"

"I want to reignite the magicka in a teleportation scroll I have. The original was expended, but I made a transcript of the incantation," she pulled the scroll out of a pocket in her pelt and handed it to the daedra.

Mephala gave it a quick once over, and resumed looking at the Lady of Madness. "Let's start at the beginning, shall we? Why would I help you? You lead the Dark Brotherhood, mortal enemies of my Morag Tong, you want my help to find another of your dark brethren." Before Loria could cut in, the Webspinner spoke again. "You wear the mantle of a daedric prince, yet you would worship at the feet of a mortal. You are everything that I am not, why should I not despise you?"

Loria paused, she hadn't expected this. The clouds of madness that enshrouded her each time she visited the isles parted for a moment – or perhaps they intensified? Swirling thoughts of a shattered mind, eternally changing, until in one moment of time; a fraction of an instant, the fractals form into a picture, luminous and incontrovertible. "Lightning flashes, sparks shower, and in one blink of the eye, you have missed seeing," she said. "All of this, the party, the costumes, the sounds and words, they're just interpretations of my mind; my mind which is still too mortal to perceive the nature of daedric princes. Yet I perceive you clearer than any of those others in there," she gestured towards the hall. "Mehrunes Dagon with his insignificant power struggles; Clavicus Vile with his meaningless business dealings; Sanguine with his transient pleasures.

"The truth is that none of those things really matter, in the grand scheme of things. Because the truth is that there is no truth. No grand scheme. Nothing that any of us do really matters; the Dark Brotherhood, the Morag Tong. There is no Destiny; just the machinations of a few small minded deities. But there could be. That is what you strive towards. The Webspinner, they call you; rather – Spinner of Destiny."

"If none of these insignificant things matter, why would I help you find some nothing assassin lost in a black land?"

"That doesn't really matter either; it doesn't even matter whether or not it matters. You'll help me because I understand. No other reason."

The Webspinner considered the latest addition to their fold; _this one could prove useful, it thought. A pity such clarity will be a rarity whilst she wears the mantle of Sheogorath._ _But perhaps in time she will grow into the role, then will madness claim her, or will she change the nature of her daedric essence itself?_ Aloud, it said "You understand less than you think you do, yet at the same time, more.

"Your Speaker has been transported to a land that no one can reach, unless they already know the way." Loria's face fell, but the Webspinner continued. "We have met before, you and I; I gave to you the Ebony Blade. Its essence is linked to me always, so that I may reclaim it at any time. I see its location, and can send you there."

"Lucien still has it?" the platypus squeaked in excitement. "Just give me some time to prepare!"

Black Hands Mephala merely nodded, and the two began the lengthy process of extracting themselves from the fallen castle.

xox

Lucien took a long draught from his water skin. After a long trek (in blessed silence after his little episode), they had arrived back at the tomb, and proceeded inside. Lucien had led them to the chamber in which he had first arrived, and they had spent the next hour stripping the corpse of Nefernis of its resplendent armour. The smell had made the girl gag, and Lucien was certainly glad that he would not be the one who had to wear it. Dividing up the armour, they hauled it out of the tomb, sealing the door behind them with magicka once more. Then they began the long hike back to the city.

It was early morning when they stopped just behind the tree line beyond which lay the path to the city. After taking a rest, during which they polished off their remaining stores, Lucien turned to his new companion. "Alright Miss Haise, get dressed," he directed.

The woman opened her mouth to protest, but caught herself just in time as she saw the assassin's eyes darken in anger. Silently, she donned the silvery armour, which despite the bad smell was remarkably light and comfortable, though she doubted it would remain so when the sun reached its height.

Once she was properly disguised, Lucien called forth Kushiel, and the three made their silent way up the path to the city. Exposed as the path was, by the time they reached the gates a great crowd had gathered. Lucien held up his hand to shush them, and a tense silence descended upon the gathering.

Miss Haise stepped forward, shadowed by Kushiel. The Midday sun glinted like white fire from her armour, liquid light seeming to run through each engraving, giving the impression that the carvings were glowing with a supernatural light.

"Behold," cried Lucien, his flare for the dramatic wriggling in delight. "Your Queen has returned! All hail Queen Katesha!"

With a psychic nudge from Lucien, Kushiel bowed low before the shining figure, and after a stunned moment, the crowd, which included the entire council, followed suit.

xox

Loria emerged from the wreckage of the bouncy castle to be met with a scene of utter devastation. Daedric princes and Shivering Isles citizens were running every which way. Shrill screams and shrieks cut through the air, punctuated by the wails and bangs from fireworks which were creating an impressive strobe-effect. Visibility was vastly diminished by the sheer quantity of bubbles in the air, and by the smoke from the fireworks. The champagne pyramid seemed to have exploded, then frozen; the liquid and glass shards hung suspended in mid air. The chocolate fountain had gone into overdrive, and was spewing out the brown fluid like a sprinkler. Various individuals and items of furniture were coated in spray glitter, and the ground could not be seen beneath a layer of party poppers, confetti and streamers. Sanguine was capering through the madness, waving glow sticks and laughing inanely.

In the centre of the chaos, the culprit responsible, Molag Bal, was celebrating his victory in the best costume competition. The last thing Loria saw before the darkness was an inbound cream pie, as it was drawn with ravenous hunger towards her face. Somewhere in the distance, a voice seemed to make itself heard over the din, and a single word echoed around oblivion: _splatypus._

* * *

Right, credits… well, I borrowed some imagery at the beginning from _The Raven_ by Edgar Allen Poe. The Hermaeus Mora quotes are from Oma Desala in Stargate. I'm no good at cryptic myself!


	13. Interlude

**A/N: Hi there everyone! I really hope you haven't given up on this story, but I've had just about enough time to sneeze lately! Unfortunately this is just a progress update: I'm working on new chapters, and will have them finished as soon as I can - I'm hoping to have one or two chapters out in the coming months, but as Autumn and Winter set in I should have a lot more time + then I'll be aiming to bring this tale to a climax. In the mean time, here's a brief interlude to amuse...**

* * *

**Interlude**

Matthieu Bellamont was using every ounce of skill he possessed as a Speaker of the Black Hand. Everything depended on his ability to remain as inconspicuous as possible as he edged his way towards the exit. He had never been popular at parties, but the Daedric Princes' curious ability to make one feel as insignificant as a pimple on a camel's arse had left him feeling particularly vulnerable, and he was in no mood to face his barmy Listener. Slowly he stepped from shadow to shadow, inching his way towards the door, and freedom. Heart racing in anticipation, he reached the threshold, and silently slipped over it.

"Ah, my apologies, sir," drawled Haskill. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to freeze. It would seem you have been sentenced to detainment at Her Madness' pleasure."

Bellamont had just tensed in anticipation of a fight when he found himself rushing through space-time, and ejected into an exceedingly dingy dungeon. He glanced around to take in his new surroundings, and prepare himself for any new dangers, but the most immediate thing he noticed was that he could move nothing but his eyeballs. Rolling them down to glance at himself with his periphery vision, he saw his own body, carven from stone.

"Ah, excellent! Loria was worried that with such an experimental spell there might be… complications. It seems her fears were unfounded, however."

Bellamont strained to see the figure of Haskill who stood tantalisingly out of sight. He tried to shout and curse, but was unable to draw air into his lungs.

"You will find yourself unable to move, eat, sleep or breathe, but you will have a lovely view of that wall for the rest of eternity. Congratulations! You get to live forever." Haskill's uncharactaristically sinister voice trailed away as he teleported back to the throne room, leaving Bellamont to gaze in horror at the putrifying wall.

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End file.
